No One Mourns the Wicked
by GIRL IN STORY
Summary: Crowley played Elphaba in the West End production of Wicked.


When they moved to the cottage in South Downs, Crowley asked Aziraphale to help him pack up his apartment. He expected to regret it because the Angel would call in the favor, and packing up the bookshop would be a much bigger job. He ended up regretting it for an entirely different reason.

He ended up regretting it for an entirely different reason.

"What is this?" Asked Aziraphale, pulling a theater program from a cardboard box. Of course, he would find the closest thing to a book in the whole apartment.

"Nothing." Crowley attempted to snatch the program away, but Aziraphale was swifter than he looked. He would likely attribute it to his sword work, but Crowley knew it had more to do with snatching the last appetizer.

"Wicked, the Broadway musical," Aziraphale read aloud. Crowley's eyes were closed behind his glasses, but he could hear Aziraphale rifling absently through the program as he spoke. "Oh, I always meant to read this book. You know how fond I am of the "fan fiction." I am surprised at you, though. I know you love your bebop, but I had no idea you were interested in musical theater. You might have finally found our common ground. I'm thoroughly _heart_broken that you didn't invite me to-"

Crowley opened his eyes.

"Is-" Aziraphale faltered. "Is that you?"

It wasn't the first time Crowley had taken a female form, but he generally preferred being able to pee standing up. Especially when he was stumbling to the bathroom halfway through a decades long nap. You think you're groggy in the morning? Try sleeping for a century.

Between that, and the contact lenses, and the _green makeup_, he had been hoping that Aziraphale wouldn't recognize him.

"Orders," he muttered. "Well, general orders. To promote hell. We're responsible for musical theater."

"Of course," said Aziraphale, who still looked a little stunned, and that usually only happened when he forgot his glass doors were closed. "I thought we vowed never to visit American after the whole fiasco in 1917."

"It came to the West End."

"Why ever didn't you tell me?" asked Aziraphale, no longer so delighted by his discovery. Crowley knew it was only going to get worse.

He shrugged. "Well, we didn't see each other in 2006."

"I thought you were asleep," said Aziraphale.

It hadn't been as long as Crowley's 19th-Century nap, but it lasted a couple of years. Aziraphale didn't sleep often, and he didn't understand the preference. God- Satan- Someone forbid he ever get a Tumblr.

"I woke up like that," Crowley joked, but of course Aziraphale didn't get it. He didn't have a Tumblr.

"May we watch it?"

"You wouldn't like it, angel."

"Please?"

Well, how was he supposed to say no to that?

Crowley unpacked his television and put in the filmed stage version of Wicked on the West End.

_What is this feeling?_

_Fervid as a flame,_

_Does it have a name?_

_Yes!_

_Loathing,_

_Unadulterated loathing._

The parallels were apparent from early on. A wicked character and a blond. Natural enemies who were brought together by fate. By Elphaba and Galinda's dance, Aziraphale had a hand pressed to his heart, but the queerbaiting was subtle. Crowley wasn't worried about that.

_Don't dream too far._

_Don't lose sight of who you are._

_Don't remember that rush of joy._

_He could be that boy._

_I'm not that girl._

He was worried about Elphaba. Her betrayal. Her vilification. Her fury over the Wizard's treatment of the animals in his domain. Her _questions_. Her sunglasses, for fuck's sake.

_Something has changed within me. _

_Something is not the same._

_I'm through with playing by the rules,_

_Of someone else's game._

_Too late for second-guessing,_

_Too late to go back to sleep,_

_It's time to trust my instincts,_

_Close my eyes and leap._

_It's time to try,_

_Defying gravity,_

_I think I'll try,_

_Defying gravity,_

_And you can't pull me down._

Aziraphale gave a little flinch when one of the citizens said, "I hear that she can shed her skin as easily as a snake!" Another when Elphaba told the Wizard, "No one believed in you more than me." He was weeping openly as Elphaba and Glinda said goodbye for good.

_Like a comet pulled from orbit,_

_As it passes a sun,_

_Like a stream that meets a boulder,_

_Halfway through the wood,_

_Who can say if I've been changed for the better?_

_But because I knew you,_

_I have been changed for good._

"Is that how you see me?" asked Aziraphale.

"What?"

Crowley had been expecting questions, but not that one. He was trying to buy himself time, even though the past three hours hadn't garnered any escape plans better than turning into a snake. He was still considering it.

"As a sanctimonious, holier-than-thouious..." He seemed to be struggling for real words. Wicked had that effect on people.

"I didn't write the bloody thing, did I?"

"But you did hide it from me," said Aziraphale. His voice was barely audible over the prolonged applause. Crowley turned off the television. "Why would you do that unless you—"

"I saw you as something I couldn't have."

Well, Crowley had never been accused of subtlety. It might be the only thing he hadn't been accused of.

He didn't realize there were tears slipping out from under his glasses until Aziraphale reached up to brush them away. The angel's fingers were followed by his lips. He pulled back just long enough to say:

"Oh, Crowley. You _are _that girl."


End file.
